


(Not) A Tycho Brahe Day

by laziestgirlintown



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, domestic johnlock fluff, powercut trope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 00:32:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7955092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laziestgirlintown/pseuds/laziestgirlintown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The power is out in London but there's a fireplace in 221B Baker Street.</p><p>The Powercut Trope. There's a reason why it's a classic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	(Not) A Tycho Brahe Day

Sherlock slammed open the flat door, then closed it more calmly behind him; John looked up from where he was sitting, and both forewent stating the obvious: that the electricity was out.

“It's for several blocks in every direction, moreso towards Mayfair.” Sherlock said, shrugging out of his coat and hanging it beside the door.

“Apparently a remarkable convergence of a cable-digging team, a pipe-laying team and a street-mending team getting lucky all at the same time,” John said. “As far as I could determine before my phone ran out of battery. I also got a text from Greg saying the Yard's not suspecting foul play.”

“Well, they wouldn't, would they; but I did get that from Mycroft as well. Or actually, there were two lucky cable-digging teams,” Sherlock said while checking the most important points of the flat. “Must be a Tycho Brahe day.”

“Why don't you come over here and tell me what that means.”

Sherlock double-checked the door and the curtains drawn across the windows.

“I have checked those. And I've tea in a thermos and another pot on the fire.”

“You've a pot on the fire.”

“Yes.”

Sherlock walked over to stand by the fireplace, looking down at John sitting cross-legged on the rug in front of it. John was in a comfortable sweater, looking up at Sherlock with a hint of a smile, his hair ever so slightly ruffled. To John's left was a thermos and two mugs. To John's right, in the fireplace, a copper kettle was indeed heating up.

“How're you going to get it out?”

John held up a pair of iron tongs, raising his eyebrows to remind Sherlock he'd been in bloody Helmand and Kandahar.

Sherlock hiked up his trouser legs and sat down on the rug, making a triangle of himself, John, and the fireplace. John handed him his blue dressing gown, and he took off his suit jacket to put it on, tying the cord round his waist.

It was November. The old flat had not been warm after two or three hours without heating. The warmth from the fire quickly found its way through Sherlock's dressing gown and cotton shirt. John poured tea for them and as he handed Sherlock's mug over, the detective suddenly leapt up, exclaiming:

“Mrs Hudson!”

“I paid for a cab to take her to a lovely b'n'b in Hampstead,” John said calmly, setting the mug down on the rug. “Can't have her sleeping an unheated night in November in a house this old.”

“And how is traffic?” Sherlock interrogated.

“She texted me she'd arrived before my battery gave out.”

Sherlock stood for a moment, composing himself. “There are spare batteries in the second drawer on the left. I thought I'd told you.”

“And if I wanted contact with the outside world or hadn't heard everyone important to me was safe, that would have been relevant information to recall.”

Sherlock blinked at him, and then he smirked. “John Watson, are you suggesting we hide?”

“That is, indeed, the very gist of what I'm suggesting. I might even go so far as to say I'm implementing it.”

Sherlock pulled out his own phone, made a show of turning off the sound – not the power, John noted – then sat back down, taking his tea mug in both hands.

“What if there's an emergency?”

“Then, no doubt, your brother will come parachuting down the chimney. So bonus reason for the fire.”

Sherlock turned to the flames leaping and dancing over coals and sticks of pinewood, regarding them silently for a long time. “It's to be below freezing, tonight,” he said, eventually. “We'll need to sleep in here. Set a schedule to get up to feed the fire.”

“I've already brought the bedding and the mechanic alarm clock to the couch.”

“John, will you let me do something!”

John leaned over to kiss his detective on the cheek. “I'm waiting for you to tell me what a Tycho Brahe day is.”

Sherlock frowned at him for a moment. Then he visibly decided just to go with it. His whole body relaxed and he scooted closer to John, their knees bumping, and took a sip of tea before resting his head on John's shoulder. He exhaled.

“Tycho Brahe was a Danish astronomer – don't start!”

“I wasn't going to say anything,” John giggled, leaning his cheek against Sherlock's curls, still slightly damp from the icy fog outside.

“He was an astronomer in the 16th century, when the delineations between astronomy, alchemy and astrology were fluid, to say the least. The king or the emperor or someone,” John giggled again, “told him to list the days in the calendar that were particularly unlucky. Scientifically, of course.”

John snorted and it was Sherlock's turn to giggle.

“I have to say, though,” John said, carefully taking a sip from his tea mug, “just at the moment, from where I'm sitting, the day isn't looking too unlucky.”

“Doctor Watson, are you making assumptions as to how the rest of the evening will go?”

“Oh, I'd never make assumptions. I am, however, making plans.”

Sherlock's next flippant retort died in his throat as his pulse sped up. “Really,” he managed.

“Oh, yes.”

“And what do these plans entail?”

“Ah, but if I told you, you couldn't try to deduce it while I'm finishing my tea.”

Sherlock shook his head slowly without raising it from John's shoulder. “I don't want to deduce it. I love it when you surprise me.”

John lifted his head from Sherlock's curls and turned to look down at him; Sherlock craned his neck to meet his gaze. A soft smile was playing on John's lips.

“You do?” he murmured.

“You're the only one who can. Well, at least with pleasurable results.”

“Hm. Yes. Such results are, indeed, an integral part and, I might even say, end goal of my plans.”

“Good.” Sherlock laid his head down again, closing his eyes.

John sipped his tea and sent a silent thought of thanks to everyone who had dug through an electricity cable that day.

***

The next morning.

***

“Ow. Fuck.”

“ … Mmnh? John? John! Are you alright?!”

“No. Fuck. I'm too old to sleep on the floor. My back and neck are killing me.”

“You're not too old,” Sherlock babbled, getting up and bustling about, “the … the floor's too old.”

“The what?” John growled, incredulously.

Sherlock had put his blue dressing gown on, stirred the fire, laid another three or four logs on, put the copper kettle in the fireplace, rearranged the sheets and blankets and quilts, and was now holding a pillow out to John.

“Lie down on your stomach on this.”

John felt a frown creasing his forehead, but Sherlock was looking anxious, so he took the pillow and lay down on top of it.

“Thank you. Now wait there just a moment, be right back,” Sherlock said, spreading a quilt over John's back.

The renewed warmth from the fire washing over him, John listened to his footsteps. They hurried to their bedroom, then hurried back. Next thing he knew, Sherlock peeled the quilt away and sat down on top of him, straddling his hips. There was the pop of a bottle, the sounds of oiled hands being rubbed together, and then long, strong fingers and large palms spread out on his lower back, before moving slowly, very gently, up to his shoulders. When they got there, they took a firmer grip, thumbs digging into his shoulder blades.

John groaned and shifted his arms to a more congenial position. Sherlock dug in again and then started massaging in earnest. John let go and let his mind drift, settling into it as painful and blissful meditation, while Sherlock worked out all the kinks from his back, neck and shoulders. 

“Why aren't you sore?” he muttered eventually, to stop himself from slipping back into sleep as much as anything else.

“Because I'm a cat,” Sherlock replied readily. “I can sleep anywhere.”

“Oh. Right. I see.” He floated for a while, then asked: “Then what am I?”

“Well, you're part bear, part hedgehog. No wonder you need a massage every now and then.”

“They are two species very well known for sleeping, though,” John mumbled.

“Yes, but they're very different sizes.”

“Mhm.” John's eyes drifted slightly open. The curtains were drawn back. It was … late morning? The copper tea kettle stood in the fireplace, steam curling from its spout. It was very quiet.

“Is the power still out?” John started to get up on one elbow and Sherlock calmly but firmly put him back down onto the pillow and kept on massaging.

“I got a text from Gavin, it's nothing unexpected, there was a lot to fix, there were more vital areas than Baker Street to fix first. We just have to wait. Speedy's recommended a caf that's got its power back so I'll order breakfast delivered when you want it. Now lie still until I'm finished.”

Sherlock found and untied a knot in John's lower back and John moaned in a way that elicited a noticeable physical response from Sherlock. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something about timing and intentions, but then he saw John's smile. Eyes closed, grin wide.

“Hey, I planned last night,” John purred. “If some intricate plotting should happen to pop into your beautiful brain, please at least give it due consideration.”

Sherlock kept moving his hands over John's muscles, a very intricate plan indeed quickly forming in his mind.


End file.
